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Full text of "Disasters of the war"

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UNIVERSITY 
OF FLORIDA 
LIBRARIES 




Architecture and Fine Arts 
Library 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

LYRASIS IVIembers and Sloan Foundation 



http://arGhive.org/details/disastersofwarOOgoya 




GOYA 

THE DISASTERS OF THE WAR 



FRANCISCO DE GOYA 

THE DISASTERS OF THE WAR 

85 ETCHINGS • REPRODUCED IN ACTUAL SIZE 
INTRODUCTION BY ELIE FAURE 



THE P HA ID ON PRESS 
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS • NEW YORK 



COPYRIGHT 19 37 BY PH AI DON-VERL AG -VIENNA 

PRINTED IN AUSTRIA 

BY WAGNER' SCHE UNI VERSITATS-B U C H D RU C KEREI, INNSBRUCK 






THE DISASTERS OF THE WAR 



IT is only natural that to Goya should fall the distinction of representing Spanish thought during the 
drama of the French invasion which brought fire and destruction to the Peninsula between 1808 and 
1 8 14. He was sixty-two years old when the drama began. For nearly a third of a century he had been 
official painter to the Spanish Court. He had already painted the portraits — startling, grotesque, satirical^ 
adorable and vengeful — of that family of degenerates, of prostitutes and monsters, which ruled over Spain 
and had gone in full force to Bayonne to grovel at the feet of Napoleon and to wash before the con- 
queror's eyes the dirty linen of the family and of the degraded political intrigues which were ravaging that 
unhappy country. At that time he was incontestably by far the most distinguished representative of a 
genius which many believed to have been dead, or at all events on the point of extinction, for more than 
a century — a fierce genius of formal oppositions and spiritual contrasts, absorbed in a supernaturalism 
which always remained attached to the most sombre aspects of earthly life, worshipping in life all that is 
most sensual, coarse and brutalj,.but also most unexpected, voluptuous, verdant and free, attracted by all 
that, in death, is most repugnant for the eyes and nostrils, but also by that which is best adapted for bring- 
ing into agreement the funereal and magnificent harmonies of secular greatness and definite nothingness. 
All this Goya had in himself to the highest degree, and he used it fortuitously, with an unheard-of prod- 
igality, full of contradictions, .obscurities and flashes of light, in paintings, portraits, drawings, engravings, 
or even in decoration, exploiting lavishly the spiritual paroxysms which he had experienced during a tem- 
pestuous life in which love, bull-fights, brawls, festivals, the sudden anger of the righteous and the jests 
of the street-urdbin filled every hour, without leaving the least leisure for contemplation. Let us try and 
imagine this prodigious man, in that Spain of his which had known no war for a century, which had fallen 
sound asleep, clothed in its mantle that had been patched twenty times, by the side of its stony pathways, 
ruined by its grandees, oppressed by its monks, despoiled of its forests and its waters by the acres of waste- 



land which were gradually encroaching upon it, after it had been able, for so many years, to satisfy its 
appetite for vanity and petty glory by pillaging America. Let us try and imagine him watching the arrival 
of the conqueror's disciplined hordes, believing at first that he was bringing order and progress with 
him, but soon carried away by the passion for independence which characterizes this extraordinary race. 
No doubt Napoleon abolished the Inquisition which Goya had never ceased to combat with barely veiled 
allusions in those terrible etchings of his that seem to exude the acid which engraved them. No doubt he 
replaced by a constitutional monarchy, by written laws and an attempt to organize political liberty and 
civic equality, the absolutism of what in principle was an autocracy of which all the links had been cast 
and all the strings were pulled by the Holy Office, with the help of its anonymous auxiliaries, the ignor- 
ance of the people and the Society of Jesus. Is it so difficult to divine the conflict which must have raged 
in his heart ? On the one hand that revolution which he had loved from afar, because it gave to all the 
impression that it had abolished the abuses and fetters which they detested and fought against in their own 
country ; that revolution which from the depths of Spain, undeveloped, obscure, oppressed and miserable, 
must certainly have appeared as a kind of angel of light, and which elsewhere had been greeted with trans- 
ports of joy by Goethe and Kant and in its expansion had drawn sublime accents from the soul of Beet- 
hoven — a Goya-esque countenance, it should be noted, tender and full, with sensual and irregular feat- 
ures, a mouth bitter yet at the same time good. On the other hand, everything that Goya had abhorred 
and attacked since his youth, the restriction of thought, the subsidization of misery, the exploitation of 
credulity, the sanctification of monkish nastiness, the corruption and degradation of women. But the for- 
mer, in order to suppress or destroy the latter, devastated the fields, violated mothers and virgins, killed 
the men, and was soon induced by the fierce resistance of a proud race which despised death to authorize 
and extend the massacre, to make of pillage and incendiarism a military institution, to imagine tortures 
worthy to rank beside those which the insurgent bands discovered in the arsenal of the old Inquisition and 
which in addition satisfied the sadistic memories of a race cruel by nature and African, Phoenician and 
Arab in its origins, and the suffering and misery accumulated during so many centuries in its blood. 
For a man such as Goya there was in all this an abundance of pretexts for indulging in intimate heart- 
searchings, for confronting the most natural sentiments and the boldest ideas, for arousing in an impulsive 
soul the contradictory violences which made him doubt his hatred of the monks when he saw them fighting 



heroically for Spain, his contempt for the monarchy when he witnessed its cynical despoilment, his love 
for liberty when the soldiers who passed as its defenders were transformed into looters and torturers. No 
art was better suited than that of Spain — and in Spanish art no man better than Goya — to put its genius 
for contrasts at the service of an expression of which events demanded exceptional power, f jNfever had 
black and white found so striking an opportunity to manifest the strength of the diametrical opposition 
between light and darkness, between vivid forms and mysterious acts, between bestiality and witV^ It was, 
in fact, a kind of miracle that Goya should have lived at the most decisive moment which Spain had ever 
experienced until then, whereas in France, for instance, where nevertheless an unprecedented drama held 
the stage, not a single writer nor a single painter appeared to be aware of it. Daumier lived thirty years 
too late. 



11. 

THE plates of the Disasters of the War seem to have been engraved from 1820 on, at a time when Goya 
was living in retirement at Bordeaux — for fear of the renascent Inquisition and of the monarchy 
which had been restored in the person of Ferdinand VII, one of the most stupid tyrants who ever reigned 
over Spain — and was finishing in exile his stormy life, stone-deaf, embittered, disillusioned, but unvan- 
quished. We possess numerous drawings which must have been executed immediately after the atrocious 
events at which he was present — " I saw this, " he often wrote in the margin — and which he used as models 
for his etchings on metal. Moreover, he had already painted the two great canvases in the Prado : the Dos 
Mayo, showing the revolt of the Madrilenes against Murat's soldiers, slain horsemen, disembowelled horses, 
the onslaught of the populace against the invaders — and the other canvas depicting the shootings which 
followed by lantern-light, jhe_simii£iL-execmioners„bent over theirja^ a gang of butchers, bourgeois 

and men of the lower classes, monks, dead women lying in heaps in the darkness, their foreheads pierced, 
their hands raised in a last protest or insult, others kneeling in despair or terror, everywhere blood and frag- 
ments of brain, the cries and death-rattles which one seems to hear. Nightmare canvases, the like of which 



had never been seen in painting, except perhaps in the frescoes of certain ItaUan primitives — but more real, 
and more savage too, with a kind of haif-caricatural atmosphere which redoubles the horror of the scene. 
Not only the dead, but the living too often seem like puppets stuffed with tow. Goya thinks too rapidly, 
his hand is too feverish and agitated to spend time over the details of form. He realizes form by means 
^f his abbreviated planes, his summary volumes, his schematic lines, but the terrifying intensity of expres- 
^ sion is heightened thereby. For these are impressions indeed, brief and complete visions of the whole, in 
which detail serves only to heighten the effect, a lightning apparition which seems to dart out of the night 
and be at once absorbed in it again. If the word "visionary" had never existed, we should have had 
to invent it in order to designate the work of Goya. And if "realism" were anything but a word, it is 
perhaps Goya who would have compelled us to include it in our vocabulary. He is undoubtedly the 
greatest visionary of the real who has ever existed. 

And it is above all from his etchings that we obtain this impression. I have spoken of the contrasts be- 
tween black and white which express all the brutal energy of the drama without omissions or reticences. 
The black of a tuft of hair, of a shred of flesh torn from loins or shoulders, of the point of a lance tinged 
with blood, of caked blood on a parched lip, blotting with their tragic import the expanse of a naked 
breast, of a soldier's back tense with the effort of killing, of the head of a dead horse ; or else, with the 
aid of a series of confused greys in which the hidden horror is divined rather than expressed, combining 
the maximum of saturation of what is dark with the maximum of intensity of what is illuminated. A 
child's dead body, a soldier's trousers, the vomiting of a wounded man on the point of falling or the livid 
belly of an assassin's victim, the shining blade of a sword and the bloodstained place of a mutilated sexual 
member, the shirt of a hanged man and his matted hair, all these suffice to emphasize the contrast in 
which there constantly appears the process so dear to all Spanish artists, which Goya, especially in his 
etchings, uses incessantly without ever fatiguing us, because it is life seized in its flight, the evidence of the 
extraordinary power possessed by all Spanish artists, and by him most of all : to give a brilliant impression 
of not knowing — and they do not know, therein lies their strength — where mind begins and where matter 
ends ; whether it is the gleam of intelligence which darkens this glance, or the shadow of the eyelid which 
gives the illusion of the gleam, whether it is the furtive vision of a beautiful leg encased in a silk stocking 
which awakens our desire, even in a scene of carnage, or whether it is desire itself which demands the inter- 



val of smooth flesh between the garter and the raised dress. Mystery of secret movement which unites the 
soul to the form. What would anger be, or lust, what would justice be, or mind itself, if we were unable 
to seize, or hope to seize, this shadow which vanishes after dashing to the ground the skull of a little child, 
this flesh which seems to offer itself to us but which its revolt denies us, this piece of bread which is tendered 
us but which our pride rejects, this pile of corpses which the murderers leave on the pavement before 
disappearing, this fairyland of shadows and clarities which our emotion reveals ? What even is God, if 
the thinking world is not a reality? That is Goya, and Goya is Spain. Don Quixote mistook a copper 
utensil for the helmet of an illustrious knight. It was only a shaving-bowl, it is true, but the illusion 
remains and makes of him a hero. 



III. 

THE most moving of his captions I have already mentioned : " I saw this." But there are few pages 
at the foot of which he did not write some remark or other. Perhaps one can hardly describe as cap- 
tions these cries wrung from the heart, cries of grief or anger, of agony or vengeance. " What courage ! " he 
cries, full of admiration for the heroism of this extraordinary race — a heroism which reminds us of the 
sudden awakening of a wild animal, always betraying a pride of character the previous manifestations 
of which are forgotten, and too indifferent to death to remember them. "Is this what you were born 
for ? " — " The way is hard." — " There is no remedy." — "They will be fit for further service." — or "They 
equip themselves," he says when confronted with the hideous spectacle of French soldiers removing the 
boots or shirts of mutilated corpses. "So much and even more" — before a heap of corpses, or else "Bury 
them and be silent," or more simply still, "Cartloads for the cemetery," or again "For the common 
grave " ; or else, with a terrible irony, that Spanish irony reminiscent in its violence of the bull's horn 
penetrating with a single stroke the belly of a horse : " Charity," when men of the people are sweeping 
toM^'ards a gaping ditch the bodies of their enemies — doubtless in order to be sure that they receive 
Christian burial. 



"He deserved it." This time the statement is direct. A wounded Frenchman is being dragged along the 
ground before being thrown into some pond or drain. What has he done ? I do not know, but we may 
trust Goya's judgement. And when he asks, " What more can be done ? " and shows us an unhappy wretch 
with his legs wide apart so that soldiers may saw his trunk asunder with their swords, like butchers cutting 
up a carcass in the shambles, does he imagine that two or three pla^ later he will exclaim, "This is still 
worse, " when he shows us a man impaled on the trunk of a tree^^Af ter that he allows us a respite. The 
"wonderful heroism against dead men" is purely ironical, like "The "Charity". It appears to be only a 
corpse that the soldiers have decapitated and then hanged, after tying its amputated arms to the low 
branches of an oak tree. When a sob mounts to his lips, Goya stifles it, sneers, and asks himself whether 
it is really worth while worrying about human affairs, whether it is worth while to arrest the hand 
which is about to kill, to open the door to the mother who is pursued, to snatch up a child and rescue it 
from the orgy of massacre in which all its relatives have perished. Sometimes I can imagine him watch- 
ing the scene, horrified but interested, certainly moved by anger, but restrained by something that is 
stronger than anger or even than disgust. It is said that Michelangelo had a porter killed, so that he 
might watch from his chair the agony of Prometheus. This is certainly untrue, but the symbol remains. 
In an artist of such rank one sentiment is stronger than moral feeling, stronger even than sensibility, 
namely the inevitable necessity of saying what he has seen, whenever he has seen something which gives 
him cause for deeper reflection than is the case with the ordinary events of every day. I do not mean, 
far from it, that Goya remained impassible in the face of these horrors which surprised even Spain — that 
Spain which it is so difficult to stir to emotion. His plates prove the contrary, and so do his character, his 
life and all his actions. Yet he remained on the spot, fascinated by the scene. There is for most men one 
disaster more irremediable than torture or death. And that is, to lack the courage and the strength to 
relate them. 

"Why?" he asks on another occasion, when French soldiers are strangling a man by pressing on his 
shoulders and pulling his legs. And here the question reveals a kind of metaphysical anxiety, for it is 
the question which every man conscious of being a man must inevitably ask himself when war breaks 
out, as to the motives of the war, its aims, its means, the claim often made for it that it ennobles men — 
which is certainly true — and the reproach so often hurled at it that it makes them viler — which is cer- 



10 



tainly not untrue. Confronted with these brusque exclamations which reveal an inward doubt, we cannot 
resist examining once again his self-portrait and noting, amidst the general bitterness of this handsome and 
sensual countenance, the two kindly lines which descend from the nostrils towards the corners of the 
mouth, the vast luminosity of the forehead, the vigorous thickness of the lips, and the keenness, but also 
the disillusioned and indulgent profundity of the glance. "Populace," he observes sadly, when he dis- 
covers men and women trying, with pikes, to simulate the gestures of violation on the bodies of dead 
soldiers. " Populace "... Is there a trace of tenderness in the word ? Or is there disapproval ? Both 
are doubtless there, for the populace takes vengeance on the executioners, but would be ready to torture 
the righteous man if he were to try to protect the executioners against it. And then the populace is 
starving. The famine of 1 8 1 1 made the war even more frightful ; women and children reduced to mere 
skeletons dragged themselves along the roads and streets, stretching out their hands to the well-dressed 
and wealthy passers-by who ignored them. "Shouting's no good," "Nobody could help them" and this 
appeal to the well-nourished and well-dressed beings who are passing by a group of starving people: "Do 
they belong to another race?" They believe so, at all events, and this emphasizes the generous intelli- 
gence of the terrible Aragonese. He dominates the events. He compares them from above and weighs 
them in his powerful hands. He knows that all men try to keep alive in themselves the fiction of their 
vanity or generosity, of their virtue or their power. Though his hate is concentrated especially on those 
who, in order to live, exploit the labour, the credulity or the feebleness of others, nevertheless he pities 
them all, for they know not what they do. In the character of this brutal, and sometimes even coarse 
man, whose gestures invariably followed the sentiment or the idea, to such an extent that there seems never 
to have been the slightest interval for reflection or self-control, or the least trace of shame or prudence, 
there is undoubtedly an oasis of intimate gentleness, something feminine, a love for the poor and the 
martyr which is more typical of Spain than is generally believed, a feeling, perhaps a carnal one, for 
suffering human flesh, which transform into a supreme arbiter this surly, disagreeable and deaf old man, 
whose bad temper doubtless served only to conceal the contempt which he felt for men in general and 
for the oppressors of the people in particular. There is in this violent, voluptuous and sometimes cruel 
man a fierce kind of charity. He loved the people. And that in reality constitutes the aristocracy of genius. 
It is very characteristic of him that he should have included in his series of Disasters scenes which have 



II 



nothing to do with the war, subjects which he had touched upon several times in his previous series of 
etchings, in the course of his continual fits of anger, fear, bravado and panic, for the Inquisition kept its 
eye upon him, and the timid protection of the Court, itself under the thumb of the priests, was not sufficient 
to reassure him. There are in the Disasters seven or eight plates in which his old hatred of the clergy 
breaks forth again. When we come across such plates, we must remember that the Disasters were published 
after 1820, at the time when he had taken refuge at Bordeaux — perhaps in obedience to the threatening 
advice of Ferdinand VII, who was trembling with fear for his own safety — in a milieu which was really 
retrograde and Bourbon, if not Catholic, but where the long arm of the Holy Office could not reach him. 
He was seventy-four years old. He had forgotten by then that the monks and secular clergy had fought 
for Spain and at times had even driven the populace into the struggle. Evidently he must have asked 
himself during the course of this drama, whether it was really for Spain that the church was fighting, and 
not merely to preserve its privileges or to combat the revolution. One of these plates, evidently dating 
from the time when he was suffocating with rage, that is to say between 1808 and 18 12, and hardly able 
to distinguish friends from enemies, bears traces of this which one might call amusing, if it were not for the 
fact that it depicts a horrible and certainly not isolated episode of the insurrection. A French soldier is 
killing a monk, and Goya observes: "This is bad." That is all. We are far indeed from the vengeful 
reproaches with which he usually stigmatizes murderers. If the knife had been in his own hands, he would 
not have gone so far, of that we can be certain. In general he limits himself to an appeal to symbols 
which are sometimes very marked, at other times furtive, but always very expressive of his anticlericalism 
— we are compelled to use the word here, however much we may dislike it — in order to warn the people 
and prepare the intelligence against the dangers which threaten them if they fail to react in time. " Con- 
trary to the general interest," he remarks on another occasion, and this same m.onk with talons on his feet 
and hands and vampire's wings in place of ears, will soon have his heart sucked out by the same vampire, 
and Goya calls that " Consequences." " That is still worse," and he shows us a donkey with an open book 
before him, giving lessons to the monks. Further on an acrobatic bishop is dancing before the crowd on 
a rope, and beneath his weight "the cord breaks." Lastly " Truth is dead." Prelates impart the benedic- 
tion to her body. But resurrection is close at hand, and in the following plate the prelates disappear amidst 
the radiance which emanates from her body. 



12 



IV. 

SUCH is Goya, still more free, more glowing with life and spirit, more choleric and cruel, more just and 
unjust in his etchings than in his paintings, doubtless because in them his hand travelled more quickly 
and left less time for repentance and regrets. And also, it must be observed, because he doubtless showed 
them only when he wished and for the most part they were circulated secretly. The Disasters thus constitute 
the most terrible document, because it is the truest, which has remained to us of the Spanish war of in- 
dependence, or for that matter of any war, past, present or future. The onslaught of a people almost 
unarmed against regular troops, the sinister reign of the hatchet and the knife, women violated, mutilated, 
or fighting with even greater ferocity than the men — I remember one, a very beautiful woman, who is dis- 
embowelling a soldier with a pike held in her right hand while she carries her baby under her left arm — 
an old woman thrusting a dagger into the back of a soldier who is trying to rape her daughter, corpses cut 
to pieces or piled in confused heaps like rags or stones, gun-barrels emerging from the darkness while frantic 
groups drag themselves on their knees through the blood, horrible attitudes of dead bodies with legs wide 
apart, opening their mouths full of bared teeth, turning up their eyes, curling up their fingers, with rigor 
mortis transforming them into horrible caricatures of life — that is war. "War seen through the eyes of a 
great man, it is true, but above all through the eyes of a man. One cannot deny that a constant sadism 
prevails, that Goya takes pleasure in displaying, amidst the odour of corpses and blood, the bellies of 
women tense as if appealing for love, their knees opened wide, their fleshy thighs, their pointed breasts 
and beautiful opulent necks and thrown-back chins. One cannot deny that he enjoys the spectacle of rape, 
that his righteous anger is mingled with and perhaps even augmented by sensuality, that during these five 
or six cruel years he was fascinated by the lowest b ut also most-idisturbing things, sniffing the blood, 
drinking up desire from the lips of women whose passions were inflamed by war. At such times he reminds 
me of Daniel Defoe, taking advantage of the puritanism prevalent at his time in order to stigmatize, in 
Moll Flanders or Roxana, certain abnormal sexual practices, but also profiting by the unhoped-for op- 
portunity of indulging in those same practices. And this is not the first time that one can remark the 
strange affinity of spirit between the Spaniards and the English, a kind of equivocal atmosphere wavering 
between Catholic cruelty and life on the one hand and Protestant hypocrisy and morals on the other, 

13 



but more mysterious in the Spaniards and more unwholesome in the EngHsh, and in each case serving as 
an incitement to amorous desires. 

Goya describes nothing and evokes everything, but his secret symboHsm is nevertheless consistent, though 
perhaps involuntary. It is a manner of seeing things, a manner of speaking and of being. ; Take, for ex- 
ample, the uniforms of the French soldiers in his etchings. They are not only badly proportioned, but 
shown as sketchily as possible ; they have only a remote connection with the actual uniforms and might be 
those of any nation's army ; he thus succeeds in conjuring up I know not what permanent army of sadists 
and executioners, and in this way enhances the terror and frightfulness of the drama. This is only one 
feature in the complexity of these sinister works, inspired by a spiritual flame which is so ardent that it i^ 
impossible to translate its essence into words for those who have not examined them time after time. There 
are other features of the same kind, the summary landscape, for instance, made up of barely sketched in- 
dications, sometimes almost abstract — but for this reason endowing the eternal tragedy with a still more 
terrifying atmosphere, independent of time and almost independent of place. Black and white do the rest, 
with their very monotony, symbolizing unconsciously the alternatives of hope and despair to which man- 
kind is for ever subjected. FT JF F ATTTiF 




I. Tristes presentimientos de lo que ha de acontecer. Gloomy presentiments of things to come 




2. Con razon 6 sin ella. With reason, or without 




3. Lo mismo. The same 




4- Las mugeres dan valor. Women give courage 




5- Y son fieras. And they are like wild beasts 




6. Bien te se esta. This brings you luck 




7- Que valor! What courage! 




8. Siempre sucede. That always happens 




9- No quieren. They do not want to 




10. Tampoco. Nor they 




II. Ni por esas. And nor do these 




11. Para eso habeis nacido (?) Is this what yon were horn for? 




13. Amarga presencia. Bitter presence 




14- Duro es el paso ! The way is hard 




ij. Yno hay remedio. And there is no remedy 




i6. Se aprovedian. They equip themselves 




17- No se convienen. They do not agree 




1 8. Enterrar y callar. Bury them and be silent 




19- Ya no hay tiempo. There is no more lime 




20. Curarlos, y i otra. Look after them, and then turn to the others 




21. Sera lo mismo. It will be the same 




22. Tanto y mas. So much and even more 




z}. Lo mismo en otras partes. The same elsewhere 




24- Aun podrin servir. They will be fit for further service 




25. T'.mbien estos. And so will these 




z€. No se puede mirar. That is not to be looked at 




2/. Caridad. Charity 




28. Populacho. The populace 




29- Lo merecia. He deserved it 




30. Estragos de la guerra. Ravages of war 




31. Fuerte cosa es! That is strong! 




32. Por que? Whyf 




33- Que hay que hacer mas? What more can be done? 




34- Por una navaja. On account of a penknife 




3 5- No se puede saber por que. Nobody knows why 




36.Tampoco. Nor this 




37- Esto es peor. This is still worse 




38. Barbaros! Barbarians! 




40. Algun partido saca. He exults in his penknife 




39- Grande hazana! Con muertos! Wonderful heroism! Against dead men! 




41. Escapan entre las llamas. They escape through the flames 




42.Todo va revuelto. Everything's going wrong 




43- Tambien esto. And this too 




44- Yo lo vi. 7 saw this 




45-Yesto tambien. And that too 







46. Esto es malo. This is bad 




47- Asi sucedo. Thus it happened 



■;-;,/y, -:>-M7;^;^^!,.i.;;j^ "■.' 










r - -v'or'.-v .^.^vV..■^•''?•.• 
- ;;.. *• .V , ..V..'; '.• ■ 



48. Cruel lastima! Cruel suffering! 




49- Caridad de una muger. A woman's charity 




50. Madre infeliz! Unhappy mother! 




51. Gracias a la almorta. Thanks to the chick-pea 




J2. No llegan a tiempo. They won't arrive in time 




53- Espiro sin remedio. He died without aid 




54- Clamores en vano. Vain laments 




55- Lo peor es pedir. The worst is begging 




56. Al cementerio (!) To the cemetery! 




57- Sanos y enfermos. The sound and the sick 




58. No hay que dar voces. Shouting's no good 




59- De que sirve una taza? What is the use of a cupf 




■ ifTi II I 



60. No hay quien los socorra. Nobody could help them 




6i. Si son de otro linage. Do they belong to another race? 




62. Las camas de la muerte. The death-beds 




6^, Muertos recogidos. For the common gravel 




64. Carretadas al cementerio. Cartloads for the cemetery 




6j. Que alboroto es este? What is all that noise about? 






'..j-^. /■< 






■""^5^ 






:».: 



ife- 




66. Extrana devocion ! Strange piety I 




6j. Esta no lo es menos. "No less cnrious 




68. Que locura! What folly! 




69. Nada. Ello dira. Nothing. It speaks for itself 




70. No saben el camino. They don't know the way 




/I. Contra el bien general. Contrary to the general interest 






-.••.-J5w-^■•^-54;■:■'ri£^.■: 












j. '" .• .- .■>" ■••!'■ -.■.'ri' - 




72. Las rcsultas. 7"^e consequences 




73- Gatesca pantomima. Cats' pantomime 




74- Esto es lo peor! That is still worse! 




75- Farandula de charlatanes. The charlatans' swindle 




76. El buitre carnivoro. The carnivorous vulture 




■j-j. Que se rompe la cuerda. The cord breaks 




78. Se defisnde bien. He defends himself well 




79 • Murio la verdad. Truth is dead 




8o. Si resucitard? Will she rise again? 




SiS^^^^VW^^ 






8i. Fiero monstmo. Horrible monster 




82. Esto es lo verdadero. This is the truth 





83. — 85. The three prisoners 



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